


Yours Becomes Mine

by marn_barn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, Dubcon Kissing, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marn_barn/pseuds/marn_barn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Allison is a better everything than Stiles, Scott is a turd, and a Lesson is Learned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours Becomes Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my lovely ladies [J](http://pigwidglet.tumblr.com) and [K](http://doublealphavanityplates.tumblr.com) for all their help and encouragement. Seven months and eleven drafts later, here we are. 
> 
> Also, my thanks to [Otter](http://thewinterotter.tumblr.com) and [ Dylan O'Brien ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HmaTld8y1l4&t=47m24s)for their writing advice. (And yes, that is me in the video. With my sweater inside out and upside down. Ugh.)
> 
>  
> 
> **Note: There are some elements of dubcon and body permissiveness issues. In addition, though they are not tagged as they are not literal pairings in the fic, this story contains incidences of or allusions to the following pairings: Stiles/Allison, Stiles/Scott, Stiles/Derek, Stiles/Lydia, Stiles/Erica, and Stiles/Peter. If any of this squicks or bothers you, please be aware.**
> 
>  
> 
> Title and inspiration from "Kenosha" by Swearin'.
> 
> Come join me at [my Tumblr](http://notoriousbfg.tumblr.com). I'd love to hear your thoughts!

“Why did you do all this for me?" he asked. "I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.'

You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing.” ― E.B. White, Charlotte's Web

TUESDAY

The alarm on the nightstand goes off.

Stiles startles and reaches for it. It takes a few seconds for his hand to find it, and he has to give it a few open-palm slaps before it shuts up. He settles back into bed; maybe he can get another five minutes in before he needs to rise for school. It’s that perfect state where the bed is cool and soft underneath him, the burrito of blankets surrounding him is heavy but not too restricting. Five minutes in this heaven could feel like an eternity. But he’s already running late, probably, and he has a test in third period today.

There’s a stream of light filtering through the window, harsh in Stiles’s barely-opened eyes. It’s lighting up everything pink, that transparent blood-flush where he can practically see the capillaries in his eyelids. That’s odd. He must’ve left the curtains open last night.  He stretches his arms above his head, rolls his neck, lets his hands flop down on his chest, cupping his perky breasts as he—

Wait, _what?_

His eyes shoot open and he sits up quickly, cracking the back of his head against the headboard. The room is pink. Like, hella pink. Like, not his room. It seems familiar, but he can’t quite place it: he’s on an elevated queen-size bed, complete with fluffy purple duvet and matching sheets. There’s a desk cattycorner to the bed, and a dresser next to that.

He walks to the dresser, looks at the mirror above it. There are pictures in the corner; Allison as a little girl, radiant and grinning in a Snow White Halloween costume, age 5; Allison and her mother smiling, holding handguns and doing a cheesy Charlie’s Angels pose. In the mirror, he can see Allison, and she looks tired, rumpled and blurry, but beautiful. She smiles.

He raises a hand to his cheek, watches as Allison does the same.

That’s when the panic sets in.

 

“Dude, I don’t fucking _know_ ,” he hisses into the phone. “Like, I went to bed last night as me, and I woke up this morning with tits. Your tits.”

“First of all, don’t call me ‘dude.’ Second, don’t touch them, they aren’t yours.” And it’s weird, hearing his own voice say that. Does he really sound like that? He always thought he was a little more… manly. Less nasally, at least.

“…Stiles, are you listening to me?”

“Oh, uh…yeah.” He’s not. He’s currently yanking a brush through his hair—which is both painful and incredibly difficult. Apparently long hair gets really matted. Poor Allison probably has to deal with this every day.

“Stiles, we have to be at school in half an hour. Just try your best not to mess this up. Get dressed, get to school, and I’ll meet you by the library. My homework is in the backpack on the hook near the front door. Just grab it on your way out.”

“Are you always this calm? I am freaking losing it over here.” And he is. What is he supposed to do with his bangs? Is there some way to make them more cooperative? Less frizzy? What is the point of even having bangs?

“You’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine. Just don’t talk to anyone until you see me. Or, um, you. You know what I mean. Ok, see you soon.”

“Allison, wait! Wait!”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you can drive the Jeep? It’s a manual.”

Allison just laughs. Of course the badass werewolf-hunter-in-training can drive stick.

Stiles has so many questions to ask, all variations on _how_ and _why_ and _what are barrettes and how do they work?_ but he can only focus on one at a time.

“Fuck. Shit. Allison? Allison!”

“Yeah, what?” And now Allison sounds like she’s barely listening, and he can picture her on the other end, digging through the hamper full of clean clothes on the floor (folding things is a waste of time, okay) trying to find something not wrinkled or stained.

“Your dad! Mr. Argent! Oh my God, and your _mom_!” Stiles can actually feel his heart slamming inside his chest. Werewolves? He can handle that. Lighting people on fire? Amateur hour. Dead bodies? Totally fine. But the prospect of seeing either of the Argent parents again is enough to send him into near cardiac arrest.

“They’re not there. Relax. Dad’ll be back later, but for now the coast is clear.”

He just nods, forgetting she can’t see him.

“…Stiles? So I’ll see you at school, ok?”

Allison hangs up before he can answer. Which is good, because he can barely think over the rush of adrenaline, let alone speak.

Okay, okay. Deep breaths. Deep, calming breaths.

He looks in the mirror, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. Well, it’ll have to do. Okay. Time to find some clothes.

Stiles crosses to the closet, throws open the doors, and takes a good look at everything there. It’s nicely organized, so points to Allison: clothes hang neatly in what Stiles can tell are matched sets. Skirts hang next to their shirts and corresponding cardigans; dresses are hung on the end next to jackets and hoodies. Stiles appreciates the effort, but is nowhere near ready for that. He grabs the first pair of jeans he sees. He understands denim, at least.

There’s an inoffensive-looking purple shirt next to it, so he grabs it out, rolls the soft fabric between his fingers. Girls’ clothes, on the whole, seem much thinner and lighter than boys’.

He closes his eyes tightly, takes a deep breath, and sheds his sleep shirt. The purple shirt goes on easily, feeling great against his soft skin. And hey, that’s kind of cool. How everything’s soft and slides together nicely. How the slightly cool fabric makes his new, sensitive nipples pebble when he… nope. End train of thought. No more thinking. Ever. Just getting ready for school.

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Stiles pulls up in front of the school. Allison was right; Chris  and Victoria were out of the house, so it was easy enough to brush his teeth, grab a granola bar from the kitchen, and take the car.

The first person he sees is Lydia, who crosses the parking lot in what seems to be two giant strides, and stops right in front of him. This is exactly what Allison was warning him against.

“Oh, honey,” she says, pouting. “What happened? Problems with Scott again?”

“What? No,” Stiles says.

“Really? Because you look _rough_.”

He glances down at his body. It doesn’t look too bad. He’s wearing the jeans over Allison’s sleep shorts (no _way_ he was going to do anything down there), so they’re a little puffy around the hips. He’s grown to really like the purple shirt: the color brings out his (well, Allison’s) eyes, and it’s really breathable.

“I thought it was fine,” he ventures.

“Sweetheart, are you even wearing a bra? I can see your nipples. You must be in a really dark place.”

Oh my God. He is not having this conversation. Lydia, queen bee of BHH and his (probable) soulmate is not staring at his boobs. His ladyboobs. His ladyboobs which are now being hugged, tightly, to Lydia’s own chest. Along with all of him.

It’s a good thing he can’t get a boner in this body. She smells really nice.

“Sweetie, take my jacket. We’ll just zip it up like…this,” she says, bundling him into a sort of angular black suede affair, roughly, as one would a kindergartener.

“Um… thanks,” he says. “Listen, Lyd, I gotta go.”

She stops him, eyes narrowed. “Ok, fine. Text me later, ok? And we are totally doing fro-yo this weekend, no backing out of it this time.”

“Sure thing!” Stiles calls out, striding quickly to the side door.

 

“Where the hell were you?!” Allison hisses, grabbing him by the lapels as he walks by a bookshelf in the empty periodicals section.

Stiles yelps. His body is, apparently, freakishly strong. Or maybe Allison’s just really light. Either way, he falls forward into Allison, and they end in a weird half-embrace.

Stiles looks up into his own eyes. They’re actually quite nice. And that pimple on the end of his nose seems to have gone away. On second thought, his eyes are _really_ nice. And his mouth is quite full, the cupid’s bow adding to the overall effect of—

Oh, God. Was he just having a _moment_ with his own body? With Allison in his own body? That is a shade of weird that he is just not prepared to deal with. He _is_ a horny teenager, but there are limits.

Allison sets him back on his feet. “Well?” she says, making the universal sign for “get on with it.”

“Sorry, sorry. Lydia stopped me in the parking lot. She knew something was up, but she assumed it was something with Scott. Don’t worry,” he says, as Allison begins to speak. “It’s fine. We have a fro-yo date this weekend to hash it all out. Or, I guess, you do.”

“Ok, fine.” Allison visibly relaxes. Then tenses again. “What did you do with my hair?”

“Uh, it’s a bun? Kind of?”

“Did you bind this with a rubber band? You have no idea how bad that is for hair, and it can get all tangled, and just...” She starts yanking at the mass of hair on top of his head, and she’s right. It’s tangled, and it hurts like a bitch.

“Fucking ow!”

“Don’t curse. I don’t do that.”

“ _Freaking_ ow.”

“Much better,” she says, smiling triumphantly as she holds out a rubber band with a few stray hairs wound around it. Hairs she has just mercilessly ripped from Stiles’s head. “Give me the backpack,” she says, gesturing.

He hands it to her, rubbing his head as he watches her unzip the topmost pocket, removing a small hair tie and a handful of bobby pins. After that comes a tube of lipgloss and an eyeliner pencil.

“Um,” he says, backing away slowly. “I have to get to class.”

“No you don’t,” she says, voice lowered dangerously. “This takes precedence over first period. We need to get this shit sorted.”

“You don’t curse,” he splutters back.

“But you do,” she says. “Sit down.”

 

Allison is doing his mascara when she asks the question he dreads most.

“So, Stiles. Any idea how this swap happened?”

“Well, I was thinking about it, and I might have, kinda, maybe, done it on accident? Like, I was trying that group-strengthening spell Deaton told me about, and I made a couple tweaks, here and there, just to tailor it to our particular needs.”

It may have been a bad idea to tell her that, considering she has a bristled brush held less than a quarter inch from his open (watering) eye.

“Wait, so you did a spell that would affect me, _without my permission_ , and on top of that you changed the spell. So we ended up like this. No, look up. At the ceiling.”

“It seems like it, yeah.”

“Uh-huh. Just for that, you get to tell Scott about all this. And, obviously, you have to fix it. Change us back. Whatever. Also, I want you to know I am officially royally pissed at you.”

“Duly noted.”

“Also, for your sake, try to do it before next week.”

Stiles looks at her, questioning. She runs a blunt fingernail around the corner of his eye socket, taking away a stray eyelash. Allison smiles at him.

“Period,” Allison says simply.

“Oh God.” He shudders. “I think that’s my cue.”

“Yep. You are officially fit for human consumption now.”

 

‘Human consumption’ is right. Scott sees him a minute later in the crowded hallway and goes in for a sloppy kiss, mouth open and tongue at the ready. He’s glad Allison warned him she and Scott are back on, so he’s at least somewhat prepared for the saliva onslaught.

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t grimace against it. He counts to five. _Don’t make it weird in front of other people_ , he thinks. After five seconds he breaks away, takes Scott’s hand. Pulls him to an alcove near the chem lab. No one’s around, thank God.

“Scott, it’s me,” he says.

“Huh?” Scott, bless him, has never been quick on the uptake.

“Fuck. Shit. Dude. No, it’s… me. It’s me.”

A look of horror and realization dawns on Scott’s face.

“Stiles?” Incredulous, as if he can barely believe it. Stiles doesn’t blame him. It barely makes sense to him, and he’s the one with boobs all the sudden.

“Yeah. Listen, the group protection spell I was working on last night went wrong. Obviously.”

He gestures at his body, from his French braid (thanks, Allison) to his pink chucks.

“So if you’re here, Allison’s…” Scott makes a vague motion: there it is; he’s starting to catch on.

“Inside me. Wait, shit. No. Forget I said that.”

“Oh God, did I almost try to get to second base with you just now? That is so… ugh.” Scott literally does a full-body shudder. Which is insulting, considering he hadn’t reacted so strongly to finding a dismembered body in the woods.

“Thanks. I appreciate that the prospect of getting with me is, even in this body, something approaching an eldritch horror of the deep.”

Scott just stares at him evenly. Point taken.

“Let’s just go with no more kissing,” Stiles says firmly. Because that’s a line that needs to be drawn, like, yesterday.

“Agreed, bro.”

“Ok, look. I have to get to second period. But I _will_ fix this, I promise. I have to.”

“Alright. I trust you.” That’s the best thing: as weird as this all is, as fucked as it’ll probably get, Scott’s along for the ride.

“See you at lunch?”

“Sure,” Scott says, and without thinking pecks Stiles on the lips. It’s much nicer this time. Soft and quick, and Stiles leans into it a bit, unconsciously. This kissing thing is kind of okay, actually.  

They both freeze. Scott jerks his head back, flushes.

“Uh…” And Scott kind of flaps his hands at him, as if he could somehow express _oh God I am so incredibly sorry, old habits die hard and all that_ and _Dude that was weird, we are bros_ with a single gesture. It’s a measure of their level of friendship that Stiles can get all that from a mini-seizure.

 “Whatever,” Stiles says, waving him off. And he is decidedly not thinking about how he just had his first kiss (or, well, first _two_ kisses) with his best friend. Because gross.

 

A few mind-numbingly boring hours later, the lunch bell rings. Stiles hadn’t realized until now how much his ADD is a boon—sitting in Allison’s body, he spent 45 minutes examining his nails. His freaking _nails_. It sucks that Allison’s in mostly AP classes—the only time he’ll be with friends is in lunch and seventh period history.

He stands, gathers his books and bag, and walks down the hall to the cafeteria. It should be a relief, seeing Scott and Allison—well, himself—sitting at their usual table, smiling. But it’s definitely the opposite of that. Because the two of them are obviously flirting, sitting with knees pressed together and grinning sidelong at one another.

Stiles bangs his tray down across from them. They don’t even spare him a glance.

“A-freaking-hem!”

“Oh, hey,” Allison says, sliding away from Scott quickly, clearly realizing what they looked like.

“Hey, so how have you two been? Obviously having a terrible time.” Allison actually has a nice voice for sarcasm. Good resonance.

“It’s been great, actually!” Scott says. “We haven’t been able to spend much time together lately, so today’s been nice. Well, aside from—” and he gestures toward Allison-in-Stiles.

“Yeah, exactly. Which is what I wanted to talk to you about. Because this is really not working for me. Like, on any level—”

They all jump when Lydia slides in next to him.

“Brought you a side of carrots, Al. Scott, Stiles.”

“Hi,” Scott says.

Allison does a ‘what’s up’ nod, rethinks it, coughs. “Hey.”

“Oh, uh, thanks Lyd! You know how I love carrots!” Stiles fake-enthuses, fighting off a flashback to his cousin Ronnie holding him down and force-feeding him vegetable after vegetable, waiting for him to turn orange. He was six. He vomited for what felt like hours afterward. He hasn’t been able to touch them since.

He swallows down a gag, brings a carrot up to his mouth. They have to keep Lydia from finding out, at all costs. Because this bodyswap shit would just open the gates for the flood of werewolf fuckery that’s sure to follow.

“Mm, yummy!” And he takes a big bite.

 

They mostly sit and eat in silence after that, even when Isaac, Erica, and Boyd roll up a few minutes later.

“Where’s Jackson?” Allison asks, meeting Lydia’s eyes with a look of concern.

Lydia just looks at her, disgusted. “And that’s your business because?”

Allison’s smile falls. She looks down, takes a small bite of PB&J on white bread. She grimaces (props for committing to her performance).

Stiles comes to the conclusion that Allison wants him to ask for her at the same time that she takes it upon herself to stomp on his foot. And Stiles has big, heavy feet.

“Ow! I mean, uh, yeah, are you two ok?”

Lydia shrugs. “Not sure. Text you later.” She looks pointedly at Allison, who is obviously wounded. Which, Stiles thinks, is not that different from the normal state of affairs between him and Lydia.

“Anyway,” Lydia says, rising, “I should probably get going. I have a test to study for.” And she prances off, like the intellectually superior princess that she is. Stiles only somewhat chides himself for watching her ass as she leaves (what, he ate a carrot, he’s earned it).

Isaac is the first to speak.

“What the actual fuck is going on?”

Erica giggles.

“I wish there was some kind of blanket statement I could make so I didn’t have to keep explaining this,” Stiles volunteers, “but I did a spell that went bad and now Allison and I are—switched.”

Boyd looks up from his plate for the first time, intrigued. “What.” A statement, not a question.

Allison folds her hands primly. “It’s true,” she says. “He’s me, and I’m him.”

“So what I need from you guys is _complete secrecy_ ,” she emphasizes, as Erica bursts out laughing. “We need to blend until we fix this.”

Isaac nods. “I figured it was something like that.”

Stiles throws a carrot at him.

 

After school, Stiles drives over to his house to meet up with Allison to do homework together. They meet in his bedroom, swap backpacks, and get to work.

“Now I have a test later this week for geometry,” Stiles tells her, “so you really need to drill the proofs and make sure you have those down. Anything I should focus on in particular?”

He looks up, sees Allison curled up on the bed with _Catch-22_ propped open on her knee. She’s staring out the window.

It’s weird, being outside his body like this. Seeing the light fall on his own face, lighting the spray of freckles down his neck. It’s serene, like a photo. It takes a minute for him to realize she’s turned and is looking back at him in the same way.

He smiles. “You ok?”

“This sucks. I can’t make it through this chapter. It’s taking forever.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Ok, so there’s this guy, Yossarian, right—”

“Oh, I meant—not literally.”

She laughs, realizing her mistake.

“But yeah, ok, sure. Go for it.”

She starts over.

 

Stiles has reheated spaghetti for dinner. Mr. Argent’s out on one of his expeditions, and apparently won’t be back till tomorrow evening, and Mrs. Argent’s catching a late movie with a friend. Which is weird. Mrs. Argent, having friends? It takes all types, Stiles guesses.

He thinks about Allison, how she’s probably having a blast with Dad. It’s taco night, plus the game is on later, so she should enjoy it.

It’s quiet in the Argent house. He’s not scared—there are a shitload of guns in the garage, so it’s kinda hard to be. But it’s peaceful. It’s weird, being in Allison’s head, where he can actually feel time passing and not constantly feel like he’s pushing down a stack of thoughts. To focus.

He goes down to the basement, figures he’ll do a little exploring, familiarize himself before Mrs. Argent comes back.

Stiles flicks on the recessed lights, whistles as the armory lights up. Ballistics in the garage, long-range weapons in the basement. Got it. The short-range weapons are probably in the linen closet or something. This family is batshit. But they have a fuck-ton of really cool stuff.

Instinctively, he walks to the wall-mount, takes down the bow, runs his hand over the carbon-alloy riser. It’s beautiful, a graceful recurve in midnight blue. He can see why Allison loves it so much.

Which is why what he does next is so colossally stupid.

He repositions the target at the end of the room, grabs an arrow from the quiver, and nocks it without thinking.

It must mean something that Allison’s muscle memory knows exactly where to place the arrow, how to position it between his fingers.

He draws the string back, fighting the instinct to raise his elbow. He takes a deep breath, lines up with the target. He can do this. Allison was probably born with a bow in her hand (which must have been painful for Mrs. Argent, ha ha). Her body knows what it’s doing, even though it currently has an alien mind-invader.

It’s a good feeling. Allison’s surprisingly strong, and he can feel lithe muscles stretching and flexing to life. It’s like a fleshy Iron Man suit. (She’d totally kill him for saying that). He’s calm and in the moment, for probably the first time in like five years.

He refocuses, readjusts, looses the arrow.

It zings across the room, misses the target by at least a yard, and takes out a floor lamp. The bulb sizzles and pops.

He cleans up as quickly and quietly as he can, praying that he can finish and make it to Allison’s room before Mrs. Argent gets home.

It’s his lucky night—Stiles can hear the garage door opening just as Allison’s bedroom door clicks shut behind him.

Ok. Time for some serious google-fu.

Which is interrupted 20 minutes later by a text from Lydia: _So Jackson’s being a douche again_. Which, in turn, leads to a two-hour phone conversation with Lydia. It’s the longest conversation he’s ever had with her, and she spends half of it crying. Seems about right.

It only feels natural, when Lydia sniffles “thank you, sweetie. I needed that. Love you!” to reply, “Love you, too.”

 

WEDNESDAY

The second day is much of the same: trying not to die of boredom in classes (because Allison doesn’t have ADD, and actually _focuses_ on the lectures, which blows), eating rabbit food at lunch while Allison stuffs her face with Frito pie, walking through the halls holding hands with Scott so Lydia stops giving him _that look_.

Same day, different outfit: tights, a floral-printed tunic dress, and hair down with barrettes (applied, along with mascara, at Allison’s behest).

This time around, though, he gets an angry text from Derek (and is there any other kind, really).

_We need to talk._

Stiles can’t resist fucking with him.

_Who is this?_

He can practically see Derek’s expression. And it’s a thing of beauty: contorted in rage, slightly flushed; what Stiles personally likes to refer to as the Constipation Special.

_Stiles, stop messing around. I know. And I don’t appreciate you using magic on members of the pack. Even Argents._

Shit. Shit. Shitshitshit.

_Meet me at the bleachers at 3_ , he texts back. _Gotta go to class._

He actually does, so it’s not as much a blatant lie as it is an evasive maneuver.

 

Because the universe evidently hates Stiles, the end of the day rolls around quickly, and he finds himself walking toward the locker room without thinking. Halfway there, he realizes his mistake, pulls out his phone, and calls Allison.

“My God I am so sorry, but I forgot that practice is today. You have to go for me. Just stand there, do what Coach says, try not to get noticed. Just be a benchwarmer.”

“Stiles, calm down. I’ve got this,” Allison answers. Hearing himself sound competent is definitely a new phenomenon.

“I totally owe you one. I mean, if Derek doesn’t kill me first.”

“You’re going to see Derek? Why?”

“Actually, he’s coming here. Someone blabbed.”

“Crap. Tell him that if he so much as harms one of the hairs on my head, I will shoot him so full of arrows he’ll look like a six-foot porcupine.”

“Wow, sounds like someone’s had her Wheaties.”

Allison just laughs and hangs up. Which seems to be kind of her thing.

 

Stiles is definitely not laughing as he approaches Derek. In fact, he’s doing kind of the opposite of that. Hell, the guy can even _bleed_ menacingly, so Stiles has no idea what Derek will be like now that he’s actually mad.

Derek looks royally pissed. His shoulders are broad, his gaze is even, and his head-sized fists rest on his thighs. His massive, angry thighs.

Stiles pictures it: he could throw himself down in front of Derek, ask for his forgiveness, for a swift death as Derek snaps Allison’s birdlike neck between his powerful hands. It would be warm and quick. There are probably worse ways to die via werewolf.

“Heeeey, Derek,” he ventures, trying to avoid eye contact.

“Shut your mouth and sit the fuck down, Stilinksi,” Derek snaps.

It’s actually really hard to refrain from replying ‘Yes, sir,’ but somehow Stiles manages.

“Magic. Fucking magic. On a member of my pack.”

“Well, technically, she’s not a member: she’s allied to Scott, yes, but Scott’s hardly—”

“Did I tell you to talk?”

Stiles mimes zipping his lips.

“You need to fix this. Look me in the eyes and tell me you are going to put this right.”

Stiles meets his gaze. “I’m trying my best.”

“Ok, good,” Derek says, visibly relaxing. “Because it’s really hard to be mean to someone wearing sparkly pink barrettes.”

Stiles guffaws, shocked. And it’s weird when Derek starts kind of wheezing next to him, and Stiles is a little worried, despite himself, until he realizes it’s laughter.

 

Stiles expects Derek to leave, and is therefore surprised when he stays for the start of practice. Stiles would ask why, but that seems too direct.

“What, no excuse? You’re not going to say you’re staying to make sure she isn’t dangerous in my body? I mean, I know I’m basically the opposite of a guided missile. What is that? Like a fire? A tornado?  Both? Is a fire tornado a thing?”

Nothing. Not even a grunt.

“Oh, I get it. You’re here to see her fall on my face. That’ll be fun for you.”

Stiles privately feels the same way. It’ll be nice to see her fail at something in his body, instead of pulling it off. She’s been taking this whole switch thing far too well.

They’re both a little disappointed and a little amazed when number 24 kicks absolute ass in practice: darting around the field like Stiles’s body was made for movement, clearing like a pro. Stiles is jealous: his first time on the field, he was so nervous he could barely remember how to hold the crosse, much less actually play the game.

Coach yells something, and it takes a minute to register: “Great work, 24!”

What?! The coach just gave an unsolicited compliment, with no sarcastic undercurrent or derogatory statements attached? Allison should be Stiles forever.

It only gets better when Danny spots Derek and Stiles on the bleachers and winks, mouthing “Miguel.”

Derek stalks away, practically trailing a fart-cloud of repression. Stiles can barely breathe, he’s laughing so hard.

 

Stiles is still chuckling a bit when he opens the front door to the Argent house. He’s hoping to slip inside unnoticed, up to Allison’s room to do more research. But no such luck.

“Hi, honey! Glad you’re home! Come help me with this salad!”

Only Victoria could say such an innocuous statement, so sweetly, and still be pants-shittingly terrifying. Stiles fights down a sudden wave of nausea.

“Coming, Mom!”

Stiles experiences a heretofore unknown level of cognitive dissonance when he enters the kitchen and spots Victoria Argent wearing a broad smile and an apron over her black dress (and who the hell actually wears an apron?). She stirs ingredients together in a mixing bowl, indicating a knife, cutting board, and a pile of fresh vegetables on the kitchen island with a jerk of her head.

It’s frighteningly domestic. Stiles grabs the knife, suspicious of a trap.

 

Turns out it’s not a trap. Well, only kind of.

 

“Pass the butter, pumpkin?” Chris Argent asks, slicing open a baked potato.

Stiles complies, trying his hardest not to grimace. _Pumpkin?_ Really?

“Um, _Dad_?” Stiles asks sweetly. “Can I be excused? I have a lot of homework to do, and I—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve barely touched your steak, and there’s dessert. Pineapple upside-down cake,” Victoria chides, eyebrows raised.

Stiles isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel about that. He hazards a guess: “My…favorite!”

She smiles. Nailed it.

“Besides,” Chris adds, leaning toward Stiles, “This is family time. There is. No. Escape.”

Stiles flinches involuntarily. Chris laughs.

Well, he’s in it for the long haul, apparently. Might as well play nice.

“So… killed any woodland creatures lately?”

 

Dinner only lasts about three thousand years, so Stiles makes it up to Allison’s room around 8:30. Her phone buzzes in his pocket, just as he’s sitting down to the computer. Dammit. Curse Allison and her perennial popularity. It’s all her fault for being a good friend.

_We need to talk_. Scott, this time.

Stiles laughs, texts back. _You and Derek are too much alike._

_Excuse me?_

_Lol nevermind. ‘Sup?_

_Can I call you? It’s kind of a thing._ Stiles rolls his eyes. Of course it is.

Scott doesn’t wait for a reply, and the phone starts ringing as he types “ _k.”_

“I guess asking was kind of a formality, right?” Stiles says, laughing, as he spins around in the desk chair, kicking idly with his feet.

“I need you to talk to Allison.” Scott sounds a little worried, and kind of…mad?

“Sheesh. Good to hear from you, too, buddy.”

“Yeah, whatever. Look, it’s better you hear this from me, but she needs your help.”

“Is she hurt? Fuck!” Stiles rises from his chair, already running the possibilities through his head: car accident, gas leak, dryer explosion (what? It can happen).

“No, no, no, she’s fine. Calm down.”

“That’s a little hard to do when you’re being all weird and cryptic. Spare me and get to the point? Pretty please?”

“I don’t quite know how to say this… She needs more… self-control.”

Stiles barks out a laugh. “ _Allison_ needs _my_ help with self-control? Good one.”

“We had practice today.”

“Yeah, I saw. Allison was great.”

“Yeah, she was,” and Stiles hears the pride in Scott’s voice. Right before the inevitable downturn.

“After practice, we took showers.”

“Yes…?” Stiles has no idea where this is heading. He starts kicking back and forth in the chair again, little slow rotations that don’t make him dizzy as much as relaxed.

“And Allison…she uh… was staring. Kind of a lot. Mostly at me. But also, like a little bit, at Danny.”

“Well who can blame her? You are one fine piece of ass,” Stiles says, chuckling.

“And then other parts started staring. Other parts. Of your body. Stiles.”

His stomach drops. He looks at his crotch involuntarily. “Oh my fuck. Oh God. I mean, this would be funny if it wasn’t my body she was wearing, but…fuck.”

“Butt-fuck is right,” Scott volunteers, laughing.

“I appreciate the joke, bro. Seriously, 10/10. But now is not the time.”

Scott is still laughing.

“Why didn’t you talk to her about this? I mean, you were _there_ ,” Stiles asks.

“Dude, no. I am not talking about my girlfriend’s penis with anyone. Especially her.”

Which is how Stiles finds himself logging into Skype, sending a chat request to his own account, hoping to talk to Allison about genitals. Seriously, what is his life.

 

He does more research as he waits for her to reply. He would call her, but he’s also half-hoping she won’t respond and they can pretend boners don’t exist. It would be better for Stiles’s emotional well-being. And his reputation (or lack thereof).

Trawling around the corners of the internet for arcane herb and pagan lore is not as hard as it should be, but sorting out the real info from the patchouli-scented New Agey crap takes way too much effort. Stiles sighs. If only there was a J-STOR for magic. That would make Stiles’s life so much easier. Also Harry Potter would have found the Sorcerer’s Stone in like five minutes, tops.

He’s imagining Hermione Granger as a sexy librarian (what, his mind goes in weird directions) and clicking from page to page when Allison finally responds.

_Hey, what’s up?_

_Not much,_ he types. _You?_

_Sheriff and I just finished “Empire Strikes Back.” Had casserole for dinner._

_Make sure you watch his salt intake, btw. He’ll sneak cheese if you’re not looking._

_Got it. How are mom and dad?_

_Fine, I guess. Wanted to talk a lot about SATs and “college plans.” Which seems preemptive, but w/e lol._

_Haha yeah. Sounds like them. Hopefully you didn’t commit me to anything._

_Tbh I’m not sure. I was just trying to keep from screaming. Your mom is scary._

_Haha. She’s not really. Anyway, what did you want to talk about?_

There’s no way to be delicate about this. He grimaces, squints, types _“dicks”_ and hits enter before he can rethink it.

There’s an uncomfortably long silence. Stiles switches back over to the Internet, reads a paragraph on herbs for bodily strength. What the fuck are adaptogens?

The Skype window bloops. He clicks back over.

_Ok?_ it says.

_Look, Scott told me you had some issues in the locker room._

He’s expecting her to deny it, to be demure and collected as usual.

_Haha yeah. Danny has a nice butt. Also, did not need to know how big you are._

Stiles’s jaw drops. This cannot be Allison.

_Down there_ , she clarifies. _In your pants_.

_Yeah, I got that._

_Anyway, now I do. So tit for tat. Literally. Go look at my boobs. I’ll wait._

Stiles would really prefer not to. Boobs take up like 38% of his mental capacity at any given time, but he respects Allison. And his (hopefully) temporary body. So he’s been showering and dressing with eyes clamped shut, trying to touch as little as possible and to think even less.

Well, he does kind of have carte blanche now. So what’s to lose?

Before he can stop himself, he whips her shirt off, pulls the sports bra over his head (because regular bras are confusing and look really uncomfortable) and crosses to the mirror.

Wow. Allison is stunning. And her breasts are fucking _fantastic_. Holy crap. Stiles inhales sharply, raises his hands to cup them. He studies her pale skin, the freckles dotting her collarbone. The temperature in the room seems to drop suddenly, and goosebumps race down  his arms. Stiles kind of can’t stop staring at the reflection of his face, pupils blown and cheeks flushed.

After a little bit, Stiles tears himself away, slips the shirt back on and sits in front of the computer.

_So?_

He exhales, types. _Goddamn_.

_:)_

After that, talking to Allison about erections is both incredibly easy and insurmountably difficult. Hard. Ha ha.  

 

 

 

THURSDAY

Derek is nibbling on Stiles’s neck, thumbing a nipple through his dress. Stiles moans, arches up against him, feels Derek’s hardness against his thigh. Derek’s shirtless, having long since abandoned his silk shirt to the floor below. They’re entwined on a chaise lounge.

Stiles is wet. He nods when Derek meets his eyes, noting his love’s long eyelashes and calm hazel gaze.

“I’m ready.”

Derek pulls open Stiles’s diaphanous gown, sucks and licks his way downward, pausing to tease at both nipples, kissing the freckles between Stiles’s breasts. He raises up and unlaces his breeches, pulling out his uncut cock, already dripping precome at the tip.

Stiles’s mouth waters. Derek places himself at Stiles’s entrance, slow and tantalizing.

“Let’s get you pregnant,” he says, and thrusts in smoothly.

 

Stiles jolts awake. What the fuck. What the fucking, fucking hell fuck. What. What. Was that. He’s going to chalk this one up to hormones and pretend it never happened as soon as his brain stops screaming.

Stiles studiously ignores the dampness between his thighs as he stumbles to the shower. Hopefully this dream was just an omen of oncoming madness, and not a real indication of Allison’s sexual preferences. Because not only was it tawdry and tasteless, it was just weird. Derek? Seriously? Like the guy’s big and all, powerful and no doubt well-hung, but—

Nope. Super nope. Let’s just get off that train of thought before it starts chugging down the track. Shampooing hair, yes, that is a safe and family-friendly choice.

 

Allison and Stiles made plans to meet and talk about the spell before class, but he can’t seem to find her in the crowd of students gossiping, playing hacky sack, and doing stupid dances in front of school. Seriously. In front of the school. Like it’s fucking High School Musical or the pilot of some bullshit teen drama.

He pulls out Allison’s cell phone, dials his own number from memory.

“Milkshake” begins playing, tinny but clear, from a spot on the other side of a tree.

“Cute, Allison. Very nice,” Stiles says as he walks to her. “Also, I fully expect you to fix all alterations you have made to any of my belongings or body parts before we switch back.”

“What, I have to get the butt cheek tattoo removed? It was so expensive!” Allison says, collapsing into laughter.

It’s weird to see himself contorted with laughter, giggling so hard that tears are streaming down his face. It’s cute. Who knew: apparently, Stiles is motherfucking adorable. Or maybe that’s just Allison’s influence.

“Yes, you are very funny. Seriously, though,” he says, sighing. “I can’t find anything to fix this. I think we might need to ask Deaton for help.”

Allison composes herself, guffaws one last time and delicately wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. Stiles’s long fingers look graceful for once, not freakish, doing something so delicate.

“I guess we should go to him. I mean, he’s the one that encouraged you to start ‘investigating your spark potential’ anyway,” she says.

“I highly doubt this is what he had in mind.”

“Ok, we’ll go to the vet after practice. See you later?” Allison stands, pulling her backpack on.

“Actually, can I ask you something?”

“After our conversation last night, you’re asking for permission?”

“Point taken. Yeah. Do you ever have, like, really weird dreams? About people? And…sex and stuff?”

“Yep, especially around now.” she says, nodding.

“What do you mean, now? Like, your…” He trails off, trying to convey ‘period’ without having to say ‘period’ and without using mime. He fails.

“Yes, my monthlies,” she says, mocking his prudish stance.

Oh, thank everything. Stiles can absolutely relinquish any and all psychic responsibility for the Dream Which Definitely Did Not Happen and Will Never Be Spoken of Again, Thank You Very Much. It was all just ovulation. Also, gross.

She notes the relief in his expression. “Tell me.”

“Nope. No way. Discussing it would acknowledge that it took place. Not to mention, we have other concerns. Like getting us back to normal before I have to endure…”

“Shark week,” Allison finishes.

“Oh God.”

Stiles’s boobs hurt so much. So, so much. It’s like that time Scott learned about purple nurples, only he can’t punch Allison’s PMS in the head and beat it at MarioKart.

He’s in third period World History. They’re learning about the Aztecs, which is actually kind of an awesome topic. Mesoamerican myths are so interesting, particularly when you consider their parallels to Christianity and the intersectionality between—Is the underwire in this bra actively trying to murder him?

He digs a thumb in under his right boob, sighs at the blessed relief when the cup shifts away from his chest. Of course he decided to wear an actual bra for the first time the day that his chest turned into a giant bruise. A giant, itchy bruise.

Stiles hears a movement to his right, looks over to see Matt Daehler staring googly-eyed at him. More specifically, salivating over his rack.

_Excuse you_ , Stiles beams telepathically. _These are me and Allison’s breasts. They are not yours to stare at. You fuckin’ creeper._

He sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and giving Matt a pointed look. Matt only winks.

 

“I’ve been watching you, Stilinski,” Erica says as Stiles closes Allison’s locker.

He jumps about twelve feet in the air. “The fuck did you come from? Also, what?”

“First couple days were kinda off. But you look like you’re adjusting to this body. You have a little bit of a swagger today. And you’re wearing a killer bra which, by the way, is doing you _so_ many favors.”

Stiles blanches. “Uh, thanks?”

She cocks an eyebrow, expectant. “Honey, let me tell you something about passing as a girl: we constantly compliment each other. Now is your turn. Try it.”

“Your shoes look comfortable.”

“Weak. You can do better than that.”

“Uh, ok. Your cleavage is particularly…visible today.”

Erica grins, claps him on the shoulder. “That’s my girl. And, as a special favor to you, I am offering a one-time pass. We can make out. I’ve been thinking about it, and it’d be kinda hot.”

Stiles gapes. This could be all of his sexual fantasies come true, all those videos that are definitely not hidden in the “Family Reunion 2007” folder on his computer. Only he could _be_ one of the girls in the girl-on-girl. Not to mention this would be like the first thing he’s ever done with someone else, ever (that thing with Scott does not and will never count).

“Really?” He says, voice quavering.

“Haha, no. But watching you totally pop a boner in the hallway has brightened my day. See you at lunch!” she says brightly.

Stiles instinctively checks his crotch. That absolute _bitch_.

Erica turns, yells to him down the length of the hall: “Enjoy your vagina!”

 

After the last few events of Everyone Fuck with Stiles Day, he is more than a little suspicious when a text message dings onto his phone.

_Are you okay_ , it asks. Derek. Weird, and kind of sweet.

_Worried about your favorite human? (Don’t worry, I won’t tell Allison)_ , he types back. Then takes another look at the text.

Fucking group message. Sent to Stiles, Allison, Scott, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac. So apparently Derek is less concerned than just checking in.

_You are too precious. Can you make me PB &J with the crusts cut off for snack, Mom?_

_Just answer the question_.

_Yes, I am fine. Though this whole ‘being Allison’ business is just getting weird. People keep hitting on me. You ok?_

He’s hoping for a little back-and-forth, to talk to someone who doesn’t want to ogle or pick on him. It’s been a rough day.

_Yes_.

Derek apparently has a different idea.

 

Stiles is staring blankly at his salad when Allison jostles his elbow.

“What’s up?” she says, dipping a corndog in mustard and taking a generous bite. If she was having a hard time eating teenage boy food two days ago, she has no such issues now.

“Nothing, just kinda bummed. Like, I don’t know why, but it’s kind of like everyone _hates_ me? Also I am tired. And angry, horny, hungry, and sore. Just like I’m feeling _everything_ all at once, and I can’t stop talking, but also I want to cry?”

Scott scoots away from him, grimacing. He is looking at anything that’s not the two of them, eating his corndog with an expression of _Oh God, anything but this, please_.

Stiles takes Allison’s hand. “You are just such a good _person_. I miss good people, like my Dad, and my bed, and my penis,” he sniffles.

“Your penis is a good person?” Allison asks.

He nods, overcome with emotion. His eyes are bleary with tears.

She pats his arm. “Oh, sweetheart. Let’s see, how about you come over and have dinner with me and the Sheriff tonight? We’re making chili, which apparently you two love. Your dad’s been texting me about how excited he is all day.”

Allison holds up her phone, smiling. It’s like a knife in Stiles’s heart. That should be his phone, his clothes, his Dad. And his penis.

Which is how Stiles finds himself in the handicap bathroom down the hall, crying into his own shoulder as Allison coos and strokes his hair.

Scott knocks on the door.

“Stiles, are you ok?” he calls. “Bro, I am seriously worried about you.”

“It’ll be fine,” Allison calls. “We just need time.”

 

She’s right. In ten minutes, after he buys himself a king-size Snickers from the vending machine and practically unhinges his jaw to consume it, Stiles is right as rain. He’s cheating on Allison’s diet, but she’ll understand.

He makes it to the rest of his classes on time, prepared and excited. He’s been kicking homework’s ass, not even needing Allison’s help. (Which is good, because she’s been spending all her afterschool time playing lacrosse and hanging out with Scott). Stiles is starting to consider maybe taking AP classes next year. If he can do it wearing a girl’s skin, he can do it for real.

Maybe that’s the wrong phrasing. He needs better terms that don’t make him sound like Buffalo Bill.

 

Classes let out soon enough, and Allison and Stiles meet at the jeep. Stiles loads Allison’s bike into the back, then there’s a weird moment where they both go for the driver’s side door before Allison giggles and moves out of the way.

The drive to Deaton’s is quick, but Stiles feels anxiety building in his stomach, like that weird feeling you get right before a dentist appointment, when you just _know_ you have a cavity.

Turns out his presentiment was accurate.

 

“Nope,” Deaton says, shaking his head.

“What? No? Let me explain again. I did a spell, which you encouraged me to try out, and it went wrong. And you’re saying you won’t help us?” Stiles protests.

“First, I did not encourage you to try that specific spell. Only to test your magical potential. Second, I would help you if I could. But I can’t. There are millions of ways that spell could have gone wrong to produce this kind of result, from the incantation to the time of day to the clothes you were wearing.”

“Can’t we just, like, reproduce the events that led to this? Stiles will wear the same clothes, say the same words, at the same time, in the same place, and fix this?” Allison suggests.

“A good idea, but impossible. Are you two familiar with quantum principles?”

They shake their heads.

“The physics and mathematical principles behind quantum mechanics are only recently being investigated and discovered, but these ideas go all the way back to the fifth century B.C. Heraclitus famously said that ‘You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you.’ Granted, that’s funneled through Plato, two languages, and numerous secondary sources, but the principle remains true: there is no such thing as repeating the same day or the same actions. Any attempt to replicate a previous event will differ in some immeasurable way, and will consequently fail. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a Siamese with a prolapsed anus who needs my help.”

Stiles just stands there, crestfallen.

“Are you two staying for the procedure? I could use a second pair of hands. Allison, Stiles’s hands are better for this. Now, what we want is a gentle, sweeping circular motion with your first two fingers. We—well, you—are going to literally _massage_ the exposed tissue until the sphincter retracts. Take the dextrose solution, and apply it to the outside of the glove—and you’re gone. Perhaps next time, then.”

 

The drive to Stiles’s house is silent. Stiles was hoping for some kind of quick-fix, that Deaton would say “I have just the thing” and pour out a potion or take out a magic wand and do his thing. “Hey, presto,” and they would be back to normal.

But because Stiles fucked up, royally, they are stuck. He has effectively ruined Allison’s life, cut her off from everything she loves. Her parents. Her friendship with Lydia. And, unless Prop 8 gets reversed, her ability to marry Scott someday.

His nails dig into the steering wheel. “You can, if you want,” he offers.

“What?” Allison asks.

“Sleep with Scott. If you want. In my… in me. It’s not fair to make you abstain for the rest of your life. I know it’s weird, but we have to make the best of a bad situation, and you deserve to be happy. Plus, that way my body would finally get some action.”

Allison bursts out laughing. It’s not exactly the tender heart-to-heart he was envisioning.

“It wouldn’t be that weird. I mean, once he got over the whole me being a guy thing. Especially the pain.”

Stiles stares at her, uncomprehending.

“This time around? I would top.”

Stiles nearly runs a stop sign.

“But for right now, I’m good, thanks. I would say you can sleep with whomever, but…”

“I know, forever alone,” Stiles sighs.

“I was gonna say, don’t get pregnant. But ok.”

Stiles smiles at her.

“Listen, Stiles, it doesn’t have to be like this. I mean, Deaton’s right—we can’t fix it like that. But there has got to be something else we can do. If we can’t replicate the spell, we have to find another one. We will do this. Together.”

 

“Together” turns out to be the word of the evening.

“Hi, Allison,” the Sheriff says, opening the front door before Allison can insert the key. “It’s good that Stiles invited you to dinner. I was hoping to talk to the two of you.”

What the hell? Stiles has no idea what’s going on, but it’s definitely not good.

He decides to play innocent. Not hard when you have Allison’s dimples.

“Thanks, Sheriff. That’s very kind of you.”

“Please, call me John. Come in.”

“The chili is a trap!” Allison says to Stiles, laughing. She’s much better at being him than he is at being her.

 

“So, Da-Mist-Sher-John—” Stiles begins. Coughs. “What did you want to talk to us about?”

“Good question, Allison. I’m not even sure myself,” the Sheriff says, looking directly at Allison. He’s clearly trying to communicate to his son, but it’s a weirdly appropriate move, considering their current situation.

“Kids, I won’t mince words. I got a call from the office saying that someone had seen _and heard_ the two of you in the handicap bathroom during lunch period.”

Oh, no. Oh, motherfucking no.

He meets Allison’s eyes over the table, panicked. Clearly, this is not a situation where the truth will suffice.

Stiles thinks quickly.

“I’m having a bit of trouble with Scott. Stiles was just talking to me about it in a place where he couldn’t hear us.”

“I know you two are having ‘trouble’. Apparently Scott was banging on the door at one point, calling for Stiles to come out and fight him.”

It’s half the Sheriff’s supposition, half the game of telephone that conveyed the story, but Stiles can see how it was derived from the truth.

Allison jumps in. “Dad, it’s not what it looks like. It really isn’t, I promise.”

“May I remind you, son, that the age of consent in the state of California is 18. Not to mention that legally, I could arrest you both if this goes any further.”

There’s not much Stiles can say to that.

“Allison, I have already spoken to your parents, and they assure me that they are also going to talk to you about the serious consequences of underage sex. I care about you both, and about Scott, and I want this situation cleared up. Which is why we are having a movie night.”

Twenty minutes later, they are seated on the couch with the Sheriff between them, watching _Coitus and Consequences_. (Thanks, educational streaming sites!) Stiles tries to avoid watching the graphic footage of a breech birth, focusing instead on how badly he needs to fart. The chili was definitely a trap.

“Kids, make sure you pay attention to this part. This is called an _episiotomy_.”

 

This magnificently crap day gets even more crap when Stiles gets back home. (Well, Allison’s home.)

Victoria’s waiting for him in his room, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a pillow in her lap. She’s smiling, barefoot, and looks almost human.

“Hi, honey,” she says.

Stiles farts, shocked.

 

“I know how much you loved Scott,” Victoria says, brushing Stiles’s hair. “It was so hard, watching you go through all that. But, just like I told you, someone better will come along sooner or later. Apparently sooner than I thought.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Stiles says, “but we aren’t together. It was just a misunderstanding. Stiles is a friend.”

“A cute friend,” Victoria adds. “I’ve seen him at the games. He has a nice face. And a nice butt.”

Stiles squawks, scandalized.

“What?” Victoria says, “Moms have eyes, too.” She takes a strand of Stiles’s hair between her fingers, curls it around, lets it drop loose.

She smiles. Uh oh.

“You know, when I was 17, the love of my life was a guy named Moose. He was on the varsity football team, had this huge gap between his front teeth and this annoying habit of always calling me ‘babe.’ I thought I was special. Then he dumped me for a girl called Trina.”

Stiles laughs. “No way.” The dragon lady was human once? Ridiculous.

“It’s the truth. I had this plan for how senior year was going to go, how he would sweep me off my feet and take me to prom in a limo. How we would wear matching colors and how we’d go to the same college. By the time prom actually rolled around, Trina was four months pregnant and I was just relieved I never slept with that idiot.”

“Mom, I don’t exactly appreciate you comparing Scott to some loser. Or Stiles, for that matter. That is what you’re getting at, right?” (Stiles isn’t sure. But she’s tricky, and Scott will definitely never have a Trina.)

“No, honey. You have much more sense—and much better taste—than I did at your age. However, you shouldn’t take that as approval. Look, I’m not saying save your virginity until marriage, but have sex with someone special. And definitely not in the bathroom at school. Now come here, you have a rat’s nest behind your ear.”

She pulls him half into her lap, and he goes limp. That’s what you’re supposed to do with predators, right? Especially when they’re offering you advice.

It’s actually nice, having your hair brushed. Although since it _is_ Victoria, Stiles is half expecting her to put a knee in his kidney and slit his throat at a moment’s notice.

 

He falls asleep, for the first time in years, with a mom stroking his temple. If this is forever, Stiles can imagine worse.

 

FRIDAY

Allison has, apparently, come to the opposite conclusion.

“So your dad spent the rest of the night talking about how I am betraying Scott’s friendship. With visual aids from your photo albums. You were a cute four-year-old, by the way.”

“Oh my God, I am so sorry. I owe you. I am forever in your debt. Enduring a John Stilinski Disapproving Lecture is a truly heroic effort.”

“Yeah, it’s just one of the Twelve Labors of Allison as Stiles,” she says, falling into step with him on their way into school.

She waves her hand dismissively. “Nah, it wasn’t that bad. Especially when he explained the concept of ‘bros before hos.’”

“He didn’t.”

“He definitely did.”

“Wow, that’s a new one. I don’t think I’m familiar with it. Bros before…what was that, again?”

“Right. How did my parents take it?”

“Your mom’s planning a summer wedding. Do you prefer ivory or eggshell for the invitations?”

“Wow, that went well! I should’ve figured. She never liked Scott.”

“Don’t be so hard on her. She loves you. She doesn’t like him because of how he made you feel when you were broken up. It’s totally reasonable. Also, he’s kind of a complete turd. Right, Scott?” he says, linking arms with his best friend/boyfriend.

“Totally. Also, I want you to know I am keeping a tally of punches that I owe you when you get back in your own body,” Scott says. “Which is when?”

That’s the moment when Stiles and Allison realize, simultaneously, that not only did they forget to tell Scott about their meeting with Deaton, he still doesn’t know about their infamous love triangle.

 

Telling him goes better than expected.

“That sucks,” Scott says. “Let me know how I can help. And remind me about the bathroom thing when you’re back to normal. I owe you so many purple nurples.”

Oh, Scott. So faithful. So expert at titty-twisters.

 

Allison has a test in fourth period, but for once Stiles is prepared and able to focus. He finishes the test with 15 minutes left to go, and thinks over a plan as he pretends to check his answers.

It’s not gonna be pretty, but it’ll have to do.

 

After class, he meets Allison at her locker.

“We need to spend the night together,” he says without preamble.

“What?” Allison does the dry-mouthed equivalent of a spit-take.

“We need time, and tonight is the first time we haven’t had homework, practice, or any other distractions in days. We need to work through this. I have plans with Lydia this evening, but I’ll call afterward and we can meet, ok?”

Allison takes a deep breath.

“Ok, you’re right. I’ve been ignoring this because of how scary the possibilities are, that we could make this even worse or mess something else up, but we should do it,” she says, avoiding his eyes.

“Hey, look at me,” he says, touching her cheek.  “You and I are partners in this. We are going to help each other. And we are going to make it better.”

She smiles. “You’re right.”

She turns and walks away. Stiles reaches into the locker, takes Allison’s English textbook and stuffs it in his backpack, closes the door.

 

“Dang, girl,” Lydia says jokingly. She’s standing right next to him because, of course, her locker is next to Allison’s. She’s touching up her lipgloss in the door’s mirror.

He jumps about fourteen feet in the air.

“Oh my God, Lyd. You scared me!”

“Not as much as you’re scaring me. Stiles. Really? _Really_ , Al?” She says, eyebrows lifting.

“What? He’s perfectly…no, that’s not… no, forget it. Can we talk about this later?”

“Ok, but do not forget. Fro-yo. The Menchie’s on Oak Lawn. Five o’clock.”

“Can’t wait,” Stiles fake-enthuses.

A text dings onto his phone: _Have you switched back yet_. Derek.

_No,_ he sends back. _There were complications_.

_I’m really not happy to hear that._

_OMG, Derek “Grumpy Gus” Hale is unhappy with something! Stop the presses! This has literally never happened before in the history of humanity/werewolfdom! :o_

` _Picture me frowning at you. I can’t do those little face things, but that’s what I look like right now._ `

` _Aww, sadface_ ` `, Stiles types. _It’s ok, honeybunch. Mama Stilinski’s working on it._`

`A pause. Then:`

` _:/_ `

 

It’s been a long day, made even longer by the fact that Stiles decided to wear Allison’s cutest outfit (in his estimation, anyway). It’s been a hard week and he needs a pick-me-up, so he’s got on her stripy sleeveless tunic, leggings, and heeled boots. He applied his own makeup, and according to Allison it passes muster, so he’s feeling pretty good.

Except his feet. Those hurt like a bitch.

For the most part, Allison’s muscle memory takes over, so he can walk and move in the boots without too much effort, but when he actually consciously _thinks_ about it, it’s like a spell being broken. He can feel the heaviness of the heel, the stretch in the arch of his feet, and the bruised, blood-filled hum between his toes.

He nearly takes a header into the water fountain when he takes a corner too fast. Fucking rolling ankles.

A strong hand shoots out, cups his elbow, and literally drags him upright. Without thinking, Stiles puts a palm to the guy’s chest, tugging the cotton t-shirt as he finds his footing again.

He looks deep into Isaac’s eyes, noticing their warmth and Isaac’s involuntary smile. The chest under his hand is warm and thickly muscled, and he silently thanks Isaac for his help.

Then they both freak out.

“Jesus, I forgot you weren’t Allison for a second,” Isaac says, just as Stiles says, “Thanks, bro,” and pats his pec awkwardly. They let go of each other and take three steps back.

“Hey, so if there’s anything you need, you can—just let me know, okay?” Isaac offers. “It may be hilarious for me, but this situation is probably hell for you.”

“Yeah, thanks. I appreciate that,” Stiles says. And it’s true. He does appreciate it.

Which explains why Stiles tries an impromptu windmill high-five with him. The fact that Isaac follows through on the downswing is just icing on the cake.

Pinching Isaac’s butt just to hear the indignant squawk it produces—now, that was just icing on the icing. Fondant, if you will.

 

After school, Stiles has enough time to run home and change his shoes. Allison has Uggs, so Stiles figures that’ll work. They’re black, so they match his outfit, and fuck you, they’re comfy.

The orthopedically supportive moment is only slightly ruined by Chris Argent wordlessly opening Allison’s bedroom door and shoving a box of condoms into his hands. _Her pleasure_. How considerate.

 

“Hey, sweetie,” Lydia says, greeting him with a hug on tip-toes outside the frozen yogurt place. It’s amazing that such an absolute dynamo of a person can be so tiny.

If he keeps his eyes closed, he can imagine a world where he and Lydia are together, where all his dreams are coming true. A world where he’s back in his own body, with his dick. His dick that he can use. This is the second time she’s ever hugged him, so he’s going to savor it.

“Al? You’re really squeezing me, here,” she says, pulling away.

She takes his silence as a confession.

“I get it, things are rough. Let’s get vanilla and chocolate swirl and talk it out.”

He thinks maybe this whole bodyswap thing is maybe just payment for getting to hold Lydia’s hand on the way into the shop. If so, it’s worth it.

 

They get a seat just inside the door, the farthest possible distance from the speakers blasting bubblegum pop. Stiles notes Lydia’s sneer as the yogurt store warbles about how it was ‘born this way.’ She’s adorable, his elitist darling.

Lydia licks yogurt off her spoon. “So, Stiles.”

Stiles sighs. “Yep.” He looks down at his yogurt, watches the rainbow sprinkles bleed color into it. (What? He got, like, all the toppings. He’s _earned_ it.) He stirs it, takes a big spoonful.

“I get it,” Lydia says, popping the spoon out of her mouth. “Has a certain appeal, in a kind of, I dunno, _manic_ way. Like he would kiss you until you ran out of breath, tear your clothes off, and then start rambling on about X-men or dinosaurs or something. And his hands. He could do some lovely things with those fingers.”

Stiles is choking. He’s aspirated a gummy bear. And it’s ok, he is more than prepared to meet his maker if this is his time. _Jesus, take the wheel_ indeed.

“Are you serious?” he says, as soon as the coughing subsides.

“Not in the least. But I am trying to be supportive,” she says, smiling deviously. It’s weird, how much Lydia’s friendship comes across like flirting. And Stiles is all about that.

“Well, I’m glad you, uh, respect my life choices.”

“I do, but I reserve the right to judge. Seriously, you chose him over Scott? Scott’s a great kisser.”

“You do have a point,” Stiles says thoughtfully.

“Well, it explains why you’ve been so weird lately,” she says, shrugging. “I’d have a hard time adjusting, too.”

 

Stiles is deliberately not thinking about how he has firsthand knowledge that confirms Scott’s kissing prowess when the situation gets approximately a billion times better. Because the door chimes and motherfucking _Derek Hale_ comes in.

It’s like a dark cloud has settled on the pink-and-green storefront. Stiles swears he can hear an actual, literal record scratch.

Derek catches Stiles’s gaze, freezes like a deer in headlights, and it’s actually possible to see the cogs turning, working out _fight or flight_ behind his eyes.

“Waffle cones are free of charge today, Derek!” one of the workers chirps cheerfully, offering a cup with a wedge of waffle to Derek’s back.

Derek grabs it without turning, backs toward the bank of yogurt machines, and pours himself a serving of dulce de leche, all the while keeping his eyes locked on Stiles.

Oh my actual God. Derek Hale is a fro-yo regular. He has a ‘usual.’ They know his name. Stiles is already formulating the narrative he’ll spin for Scott later, the dramatic scene he will set to properly express the hilarity of this moment.

“So who’s he?” Lydia asks, feigning disinterest.

“Oh, he knows my dad,” Stiles says dismissively. And, technically, it’s true—both in his current state and as himself.

“Because you should be all up on that. Forget Stiles. That ass is practically marmoreal,” she says, licking her spoon and gazing over his shoulder.

He turns, locks eyes with Derek, who is doing some contortionist move to keep his eyes on Stiles while sprinkling heath bar crumbles on his yogurt. It’s motherfucking precious.

And she’s got a point—that ass is one you could write sonnets to. Stiles definitely doesn’t measure up.

“Fine, if you’re not going to introduce me, I’m going to do it myself,” Lydia says, and saunters over to the counter, where Derek is counting out exact change for his yogurt—because of course he is.

She’s a pro at flirting, Stiles will give her that, but if anything her attention makes Derek even more tense. He looks like his skeleton’s going to pop out of his body if anyone so much as touches him.

Lydia strokes his bicep, leans close and says something in a low purr. Stiles so wishes he had werewolf hearing. As is, though, he can practically hear the creak of Derek’s hands atrophying into little arthritis claws as he tries not to jerk away. She slips him her number, gives a last admiring pat to his arm, and returns to the table, spooning more yogurt into her mouth with a flawlessly elegant motion.

“Well, he wasn’t really interested, but he did say to tell you that Stiles was dead meat,” Lydia says. “Looks like someone’s jealous.”

They both watch Derek leave, which is more than a little weird because he’s watching them, too, balancing his cup of yogurt in the crook of his arm as he pulls open the door. Lydia turns back to her yogurt as Derek runs a finger across his throat, the international sign for “silence/I will murder you slowly.”

Stiles winks, laughing to himself as Derek turns away, popping a piece of waffle cone into his mouth. Fucking werewolves. Fucking Derek.

 

_Fucking shit!_ Stiles swears internally when he sees the text message Allison sent him.

_Sheriff and my parents want to have a ‘family dinner’ tonight. With me, you, and Scott. My house, 7:15._

“Wow, Allison, are you okay?” Lydia asks, concerned. “You look like you’re trying to squeeze your phone to death.”

“It’s nothing. Just an impromptu family dinner with my parents, Stiles, and the Sheriff. Also Scott, for some weird reason.”

“Weird. Well, good luck.”

They’re sitting on a bench in front of the fountain outside the mall, kicking their feet and talking offhandedly about school and boys and life.

Lydia’s concern at Jackson’s standoffishness has turned to anger. Every 3 or 4 minutes, she’ll bring the conversation back around to him. Yep, it’s 6:48 now. Time for the next round.

“He’s such a jerk, you know? Like I’m going to be content not hearing from him for days, not knowing how he is emotionally and mentally? It’s degrading, when he reduces our relationship to the physical. I mean, we have great sex, but he’s a terrible boyfriend. Is it too much to ask, to want both from one person?”

“Look, Lyd. I’m going to tell you the same thing I…probably… always tell you, what any sane person would tell you: if you really love Jackson, it’s worth talking this out with him. But if he doesn’t respect you, dump his punk ass. There are so many great guys out there who worship the ground you walk on. Which you deserve.”

“Well, that’s true,” Lydia says, sitting up. “I am a goddess on earth.”

“That you are,” Stiles says, and luckily his phone buzzes before he can do something weird like propose or try to kiss her, Allison’s body be damned.

_You coming?_ From Allison. _Dinner’s in 10._

_So when you say ‘my house,’ do you mean yours or mine?_  He types one-handed, pulling Lydia into a hug.

“Gotta go, Lyd. Talk to Jackson. Text me later if you want to talk.”

_Who’s on first?_ followed by _The sheriff’s house, haha._

Well, at least he’ll have home-court advantage for whatever shitstorm is coming.

 

It doesn’t help much.

“All we’re saying, kids,” the Sheriff says, ladling mashed potatoes onto his plate, “is that we love and respect you guys. And we want you to be safe. Especially when it comes to relationships.”

“For the most part,” Chris adds, “I want to make sure my daughter is making the right choices.” He pointedly takes a bite of his pork chop, staring directly at his daughter. Who is Stiles. This is weird.

“Um, hate to point out the elephant in the room—no offense—but why is Scott here?” Stiles asks.

“I was just going to ask that. You know, I think it’s a mistake that I’m here. Thank you so much for the food, John, Mr. and Mrs. Argent, but I think I’m just going to head out,” Scott says, rising from his chair.

“Sit down!” Victoria commands. “And please pass the apple sauce.”

Scott sits. Allison giggles.

“Now, it seems that you kids are experiencing a perfectly normal situation. I know it’s happened to me. And it’s probably happened to your parents, too, Allison,” the Sheriff says, gesturing toward them for confirmation.

Chris nods. Victoria shakes her head.

“Well, anyway. I want to clear the air. Allison, when did you and Scott break up? Because I know you were still dating not even two weeks ago.”

Victoria leans forward in her seat. Chris looks ready to pounce.

“No, Dad, I think you’re mistaken,” Allison says, meeting the Sheriff’s gaze. “They broke up a few months ago.”

“Really? Because I could’ve sworn…” the Sheriff says, looking from person to person. “Well, that does make it simpler. Scott, I know it’s hard seeing your ex-girlfriend date your best friend. I mean, if that’s what’s going on here. I’m still not sure.”

He waves a fork, indicating the three of them.

“Scott, I want you to know we are here to support you. I’m sure your mom would say the same thing.”

“Thanks, John,” Scott says, obviously trying to stifle a laugh. Stiles and Allison both kick him under the table, which makes all three of them laugh.

“And just because you’re my son, that does not mean that I will let you off the hook for any inappropriate behavior,” the Sheriff says, pointing at Allison. “Your friendship with Scott is something you shouldn’t just throw away.”

“Allison,” Victoria says, taking Stiles’s hand across the table, “I expect you to make rational decisions. You are a wonderful person, and you deserve to be treated well in any relationship. You also need to treat others well. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Mom,” Stiles says, trying not to flinch.

“Ok, so it’s decided,” Chris says, clapping his hands together.

“What is?” Scott says. “I’m lost.”

“Not a clue,” Chris says. “I think we’ve decided that the decision is up to you three. Now go play video games or something. I’d like to enjoy some adult conversation without a cloud of teenage hormones surrounding me.”

The three of them stand, relieved.

“If I hear any fighting, I will drag you all down to the station!” the Sheriff cautions as they leave.

 

They walk up the stairs to Stiles’s bedroom, Stiles in the lead. He has to pause for a moment once he enters: it’s weird, knowing that someone else has been living here for the past four days, spinning in his desk chair and flicking the lights on and off and raising and lowering the blinds. It looks the same: he can’t exactly tell that someone has been sleeping in his bed, but he _knows_ all the same. It’s different.

He crosses to his desk, opens the bottom drawer and removes the shoebox inside. It holds a ziploc bag of dried herbs (which does, actually, bear a striking resemblance to weed) and a stapled packet of Xeroxed papers, highlighted and annotated by Deaton. The connotation, of course, being that Stiles couldn’t be trusted to actually handle a spellbook. Considering their current circumstances, the vet’s caution is warranted.

Scott and Allison are sitting on the bed, holding hands. Allison looks like she fits there, tucking Stiles’s head under Scott’s chin. There’s a strange feeling in the air, a tightening and a darkening. Everyone’s quiet-- waiting for Stiles to say something, he assumes. They probably don’t want him to comment on Scott’s chin getting rug burn from the top of Allison’s head.

“This is it, guys.” He holds up a page highlighted in yellow, where he jotted the note _might be good for pack_ not even a week ago. _Add cedar/ginger?_

Well, that was a fucking dumb idea. As is abundantly clear.

“Ok, we have basically run out of options. I think our best bet is to try this again, and see if it maybe restores us to normal. It sounds stupid, but it’s basically the magical equivalent of retracing our steps.”

“Dude, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I mean, if this is what happened from a minor mistake,” and here Scott gestures to Allison, “what’s the worst-case scenario?”

Allison sits up, looks at them both. “I think it’s worth the risk. I mean, we’ve handled the switch okay, haven’t we?”

“How can you say that when you don’t even know what the risk _is_? Do you know what it’s been like, seeing you like this all week?” Scott pleads.

“Wow, rude,” Stiles interjects. “Like Allison being me is torture or something?!”

They ignore him (wisely).

Allison lets go of Scott’s hand, turns to face him. “Scott, I understand your feelings and I appreciate your concern, but what we need right now is for you to trust us. Stiles and I make a good team, okay?”

Scott nods. “I know. I’m just… it sucks, being so strong and still not being able to protect you all the time. Because if you got hurt—either of you—I’d fucking lose it.”

“I know that. I love that about you,” Allison says, giving Scott a passionate kiss.

Gross. Stiles could somewhat stomach the abstract idea of Allison using his body to, um, _be_ with Scott, but he certainly does not need to actually see it happen. He’s torn between not wanting to ruin their moment and being really creeped out.

Which is why, for a split second, he feels relief when his dad comes into the room without knocking.

Until he sees the scene through the Sheriff’s eyes: Stiles and Scott tangled on the bed, Scott nipping at Stiles’s lower lip while Allison looks on.

Fuck.

“Well this is, um…” the Sheriff says, and coughs. Loudly.

Allison and Scott spring apart. Stiles says a small prayer of thanks when he sees that neither has a noticeable boner.

“Boys, are you sure that a sleepover is the best idea right now?” the Sheriff asks rhetorically.

“You’re right, John. I’ll see myself out,” Scott says, rising red-faced and avoiding eye contact with everyone.

“Allison, your parents are ready to go home,” the Sheriff says. “Stiles and I need some private time, so if you wouldn’t mind shutting the door on the way out?”

Stiles stands, slipping the packet of spells and the dried herbs into his purse. He looks at Allison, sees her smiling. Maybe this won’t be too bad; Allison’s got a knack for talking herself out of strange situations.

Is it weird that Stiles is hoping to be back in his own body in time for the next Sheriff Stilinski awkward sex talk?

Or maybe not. Through the door, he can hear the Sheriff say “Well, I certainly never experienced anything quite like _that_ when I was your age—”

 

_Allison’s bedroom, midnight_ , he texts Allison and Scott once he’s in the Argents’ backseat. _I’ll leave the window open._

At this point, Victoria’s basically given up on trying to talk to him about boy troubles, probably recognizing herself in her daughter’s stubbornness and independence. (Did Stiles really just think of himself as Victoria’s _daughter_? _Victoria’s_ daughter? He needs to get back into his own body ASAP.)

Either way, this means that Stiles is left alone to go to his room once they arrive back at the Argent house. He takes advantage of this by locking the door, blasting Florence and the Machine on Allison’s iPod speakers, and practicing incantations.

It’s different this time, though. Usually, Stiles can feel a thrum under his skin around the third word, a creeping warmth, similar to that nice tingly feeling you get from peeing in a swimming pool but without all the chlorine and social stigma.

This time, though? Nothing. It feels dead, like reading a magazine ad.

He tries, again and again, trying to ignite the spark in his marrow, and has worked himself into a panic by the time Scott vaults over the windowsill.

 

“Wow, you look really worn out. Are you sure you’re ok?” Scott says, with his trademark concern.

“Good to see you too, buddy,” Stiles jokes weakly. He has one hell of a headache.

“Look, the magic definitely won’t come if you burst a blood vessel in your eye or something.”

“I know. I think it’s gone. I can’t feel it. Like it’s this organ you hardly ever use, and then the one time you actually need it, it’s been stolen and you’re waking up in an ice bath in a skeezy motel.”

“So magic is…your kidney?”

“Nah, less than that. My spleen, maybe?”

“I gotta be honest with you, that makes no goddamn sense. Why don’t you sit down and drink some water?”

That’s when Stiles notices that he’s been shuffling back and forth for the last hour and a half on the floral rug, and that his feet really fucking hurt. And then his knees kinda give out.

Scott rushes over to grab Stiles, werewolf reflexes taking over, and then abruptly drops him when Stiles’s skin delivers its static payload.

“Motherfucker!” Scott shouts, then claps a hand over his mouth. They both freeze, hearing a creaking in the hallway. Stiles points to the closet, and Scott hides himself among Allison’s dresses.

The door creaks open. Stiles flops himself down on the bed, making an effort to adopt a natural pose. Somehow this translates as a schizophrenic tangle of limbs. Hopefully Victoria or whoever it is won’t notice.

Stiles watches his own face peek around the door. Allison steps into the room, closes the door behind her with a soft click. She tucks a bobby pin back into her hoodie’s pocket (because of course she knows how to pick her own bedroom’s lock).

“Scott’s not here? I could’ve sworn I heard him,” Allison says, confused.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Scott says, stepping out of his hiding place.

“Ah, I should’ve figured my boyfriend was _in the closet_ ,” Allison says, cracking herself up.

“Do you find that, like, cute?” Stiles asks, pointing to Allison, who’s laughing so hard she’s almost crying.

Scott shrugs. “Yeah, she’s pretty adorable.”

 

“Ok, so here’s the thing,” Stiles says, as soon as Allison regains her breath. “I think you might have my spark. I’ve been trying and trying, but I can’t seem to get anything. And I dunno, maybe, it’s like an innate biological thing? Like it’s a part of my body more than it’s a part of me. Maybe.”

Allison nods. “Yeah, it seems like we have a couple things that stuck with our bodies. Like your constant horniness.”

“I resent that!” Stiles says reflexively, before he considers what she said. He leans in. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

“I’ve been masturbating like four times a day. I’m worried I’m going to chafe.”

Now it’s Scott’s turn to crack up.

“It took a little getting used to, because your body likes different things than him,” she adds, jerking a thumb at Scott.

Scott falls silent. The boys try not to make eye contact.

There is literally nothing Stiles can say.

“Well, uh, anyway. I’ll set up the incense and the herbs and all that shit, and then you just see if you can maybe work the incantation. I have it printed out, so you can just read it off the page. Scott, if you want to guard the door, that’d be awesome. Just let us know if anyone is outside or comes near Allison’s room.”

He pulls both of them into a hug. “This will work, guys.”

 

Stiles sets the incense cone aflame, burns the herbs in a dish Allison uses for her loose change, and sprinkles the ashes in a loose circle on the floor. He calls Allison over, watches her exchange a glance with Scott as she crosses the room. There are multitudes in their gaze that he can only begin to understand, layers of love and gratitude and mingled fear. He wonders if he will ever look at anyone like that himself.

Allison takes Stiles’s hands as he completes the circle, picks up the highlighted page from the desk. She holds the paper in her left hand, and he supports her wrist with his right hand.

“Close your eyes,” he tells her. “Focus on the smell of the cedar. That always helps me. Imagine the stillness in your chest, feel your heart beat, and make it all slow down.”

She nods, stands utterly still with eyes closed, and he can feel the moment in her wrists. Her pulse slows, her breathing is shallow.

“Good,” he says quietly. “You found the spark.”

She smiles, and it’s utterly beautiful. Is this Allison’s competence lighting Stiles’s features, or is this his body showing its power?

Scott sneezes explosively. They both jump, and Allison lets go of Stiles, her concentration broken.

“Sorry, guys,” Scott offers sheepishly. “I think it’s the incense. My eyes are watering like a bitch.”

“It’s ok,” Stiles says, and takes Allison’s hands. “Try again. This time, once you’re there, open your eyes and start reading.”

He closes his eyes tightly, waits to hear his voice reading out the words of the spell. He hears her reading, but feels nothing except a growing itch in his calf. He cracks one eye.

“Allison, are you sure that—“

The air erupts.

 

SATURDAY

The alarm on the nightstand goes off.

That’s just dumb; Stiles knows instinctively that it’s Saturday. And literally the number one perk of the weekend is sleeping in. He can actually count on one hand the amount of times he’s woken, voluntarily, before 12:30 on a Saturday afternoon.

He slaps the alarm until it shuts up, turns and snuggles down into his comforter. He knows without looking that it’s the gray and blue checked flannel one, because it has a nice soft feel against his cheek. He burrows down, huffing a trail of hair away from his mouth. It tickles his nose.

His eyes open and from his limited vantage point he can see a head of silky red hair and the shell of an ear rising from the pillow next to him. It’s just Lydia, then.

_Wait, Lydia? In his bed?_

He sits upright, jostling her awake.

“Oh, hey,” she says, stretching and yawning. She smiles at him. “Did you sleep okay? I don’t remember anything after like my third cup of jungle juice. Danny throws a mean party.”

He just stares at her. Half-formed memories are coming back: dancing under the moon in the backyard with Isaac and Erica, doing keg stands supported by Jackson and Boyd, sharing a joint with Scott.

But there’s something surrounding Scott, some sense of this not being entirely right. A thought that slips entirely from his mind when Lydia stands up from his bed and pads noiselessly, clothed only in underwear and Stiles’s t-shirt, across the floor and out into the hall.

She comes back a moment later, peeking around the doorframe with a toothbrush poking jauntily from her mouth. Stiles’s toothbrush. She smiles, lovely eyes and sunshine. He smiles back.

She returns to the side of the bed after rinsing, lightly shoves his shoulder. “Gotta get up, babe. Your dad will be back from work soon.”

She pulls on her jeans, tucks her hair behind her ears, scoops her keys and phone up from the nightstand and deposits them in her pocket with an ease that shows she’s done this before, here, with him.

“You okay?” she says, taking Stiles’s hand. “You’re watching me like a hawk.”

“I’m fine,” he reassures her. “Just feeling weird. Like there’s something I should be doing. For you, maybe, or dad. And Scott. There’s something about Scott.”

“Scott?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. “That guy on your team?”

“Yeah, him. I need to find him, to talk to him.”

“O…kay?”

“He’s sad, I think. But I can’t remember why.”

“You’re so considerate,” Lydia says, leaning down to kiss him. “That’s what I love about you.”

As he’s kissing her, he feels warring impulses: sure in his role as her boyfriend, captain of the lacrosse team, son of the Sheriff and best friend of Danny Mahealani. But equally sure that none of this is right, that Scott means more to him than anything and that Lydia barely notices him. And something about werewolves. That part’s not as clear.

The part he understands, feels in his bones, is _this is not my life_.

And the world is wrenched apart.

 

SATURDAY

“Wake up, Stiles,” a voice insists.

“Five more minutes,” Stiles mumbles.

“Honey, you asked for ‘five more minutes’ three times already.”

“Mom, just one more time. For a total of twenty extra minutes.”

“No can do, sweetie,” she says, and throws open the curtains.

Stiles writhes in his bed, clutching the blue and gray flannel comforter and trying to shut his eyes against the invading sunlight.

“You should pack a bag for Scott’s tonight, but first, please God take a shower. You reek.”

“Thanks, mom, for the self-esteem boost.”

“Psh, like you need it,” she says, and smacks his foot.

He opens his eyes, sees her in the light of day: brown eyes surrounded by crows’ feet, gray streaking her hair. Smiling broadly, with that nose that looks just like his. Patricia Stilinski. Mom. It hurts, but he can’t exactly place why.

“Don’t forget, Derek’s coming by to pick you up in fifteen minutes. You better hurry.”

Stiles shoots out of bed, rushing past her into the bathroom. “Oh my God, I totally forgot!”

“You’d have more time if you had actually woken up when you were supposed to,” she chides over her shoulder.

 

Derek pulls up, punctual as always, in exactly fifteen minutes. Stiles runs down the stairs, hair dripping water, pulling his shirt on as quickly as he can and trying to beat his dad to answering the door. No dice.

“Morning, John,” Derek says, offering a hand to the Sheriff.

“That’s Sheriff Stilinski to you, son,” John says, watching Derek’s smile fade. “Just kidding. C’mere,” and pulls Derek over the threshold with the force of his bear hug.

“You had me going for a second there,” Derek says, laughing.

“Ok, yeah, family time’s over. Those pancakes are not going to eat themselves,” Stiles says, pulling Derek forcibly from the Sheriff’s embrace.

 

The Saturday IHOP dates are the only way Stiles and Derek can find time together these days, what with Derek’s deputy work and his night classes at the community college. He’s getting an associate’s in criminal justice but wants to get a teaching certificate because he is the most motherfucking precious boyfriend on earth. And something about how wonderful and saccharine it all seems when Derek peeks over the menu at him and winks sets Stiles’s teeth on edge.

After they eat, they walk slowly back to the car (Stiles swears the sloshing of his distended stomach is audible by this point) hand in hand. Derek quotes that Jim Gaffigan line about “they should call it I-Barely-Move” like he always does, and Stiles smacks him on the shoulder. Derek turns, kisses him on the cheek, and says, “I love you, Stiles.”

Stiles says: “I love you, too.” Thinks: _This is not what I want_.

And it spins away from him.

 

SATURDAY

Stiles wakes before dawn, shivering at the mist playing against his skin. The blood of last night’s kill is congealing on his skin and he can taste it in his mouth: rabbit. Deer. And is that…bear? Either way, it’s delicious.

He stands, feeling the crack of his joints as he readjusts to his human form. He looks around in the dim light, searching for his pack. He can’t hear them, but he can feel them somewhere not entirely out of range.

Stiles throws back his head, howls and listens to the reverberating echoes and the howls sent out in response by his pack: Peter, Derek, Scott, all part of him and moving toward their alpha.

A year ago, Stiles had never imagined wanting to be a werewolf, wanting to accept the bite that Peter had offered so flippantly. But priorities change, especially when a stream of omegas trickled into town, threatening the safety of Stiles’s school and his family. When one took Melissa, it had been the final straw. The only way for Stiles to help Scott in his grief was to take it upon himself. So Stiles had done the only thing he could think of and accepted the bite from Peter.

Peter had given his power freely when he recognized Stiles’s prowess. And something about that has never sat right with him.

But he doesn’t think about it too much now; instead, he focuses on the joy of a full, taut belly, the fur that grows on his arms and along his spine, the strength that practically crackles under his skin. The only humanity he sacrificed was the weakness that would have made him feel bad for snapping Jackson’s pathetic neck, for tearing into intestine and membrane and destroying utterly the stupid, pompous child that had made his life a living hell.

It had been worth it, for the love of Peter, and Peter does love him. In his own dark way, of course, and not in so many words, but in the pauses between sharp breaths and the moan as he comes across Stiles’s stomach. _Mates_ is probably the wrong word; it implies partnership and equality and monogamy, but it’s the closest term he can think of to describe the fealty Peter has sworn, the power that thrums in his veins.

And that’s what it all comes down to: Stiles has the power. He manipulates. Never again will he fear, will he be controlled by anger or pain. Peter was right. Stiles is one hell of a werewolf.

And Stiles thinks: _Scott’s the werewolf_. Thinks: _that’s not true power._

And in a blink, it’s gone.

SATURDAY

Stiles sits up in bed, short of breath from the edge of a nightmare, feeling his heart stutter in his chest. He looks at his hands: still Allison’s, close-cropped nails and thin fingers, so much smaller than his own.

She’s sleeping next to him, still in Stiles’s body, and Stiles marvels at the length of the eyelashes that touch his cheek. He (or maybe Allison) looks peaceful like this, head pillowed in the crook of his arm. She’s smiling in her sleep, so evidently her dreams have been much nicer than his.

Stiles assumes it’s a good sign that he can remember his dreams, all those branching possibilities and lives he could have led with a few minor tweaks. He tries hard to avoid thinking about the one where he’s with Derek for a number of reasons, not all of them painful.

It’s Saturday morning, 10:30 to be exact, and they are laid out on top of Allison’s bed. Scott is nowhere to be seen, but Stiles sees a text from him on his phone: _Went to get breakfast, brb. Argents went to spin class._

Stiles laughs to himself, picturing Chris Argent on a stationary bike, squirting water into his face and nodding along to the tinny pop music playing over his earphones. For some reason, the version Stiles sees in his head is wearing a pink sports bra. It’s probably best not to go into that.

Allison yawns and stretches awake, and for a second he feels _déjà vu_ ; it’s like the dream where he and Lydia were together, only this time he’s looking at his own bleary face when Allison says “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah, I guess. Don’t really remember much after you read the spell.”

“I think we might’ve passed out. Looks like Scott put us on the bed. Where is he?” she says, looking around the room.

“Went to get breakfast. He’ll be back soon,” Stiles says, waving the phone as a form of proof.

She nods, looks down at her arms and body. “Hmm.”

“Yeah, I know. Looks like this didn’t work. We’ll have to try something else,” Stiles says, shrugging. It’s not like he had high hopes, exactly, and this is far from a worst-case scenario.

“I figured. But I was thinking about the fact that, for the first time in almost a week, I haven’t got morning wood.”

She laughs, and he does too, until he thinks about it for a second: waking up slowly to the feeling of a warm, hard dick pressed against his butt. Kinda brings back memories of the Derek dream (and the Peter one, which is a different thing entirely). He shivers.

“Donuts, guys,” Scott calls, pushing open the door. He’s clutching two white paper bags, both blotted with grease.

“Fuck yeah!” Stiles crows, and nearly knocks Allison over in his rush to the door. “I’m starving! I mean, if it’s okay for me to…” and here he looks at Allison. “I mean, with your diet and all.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “You’ve earned a cheat day.”

 

They eat in the breakfast nook downstairs, sun pooling in and warming Stiles’s hands as he stuffs his mouth full of donut holes. Allison guzzles orange juice, joking and flirting with Scott as she picks at a braided cinnamon twist. They’re calm now, used to it, her motion fluidly translating into Stiles’s gangly limbs; his growing awareness that being in Allison’s delicate body doesn’t exactly make him a walking disaster area.

They could live like this, the three of them, and it doesn’t have to be tragic or woeful and this isn’t the end of Stiles’s life. Allison does a great job of being him—is probably the son the Sheriff’s always wanted, the best friend Scott’s always wanted, the perfect teammate for Danny and Isaac.

He can almost see a life as Allison: going to college, settling down with someone who knows a little something about the supernatural. A beautiful girl. Or maybe a boy. He’s not so sure, anymore. Life would be weird without his spark but it’s not like he used it that much anyway.

It’s not like Stiles has much of a life in his own body. The guilt of fucking them both over will eventually subside, especially since Allison has taken to Stiles’s body like a duck to water, the way she does everything. Hell, even Scott seems to have resigned himself, judging by the way he’s playing footsie with Allison in Stiles’s body and not giving Allison’s body a single glance as he swigs his milk.

_It’s a fucking nightmare_ , Stiles thinks.

 

And nothing happens.

The world doesn’t move, nothing changes. He’s stuck and he can’t escape and all he can feel is a rising mass of donuts in his throat.

He makes it to the sink, barely, heaving up partially-chewed chocolate frosting, sprinkles, bile. Tears sting his eyes. Is he really going to take this lying down?

He can’t, can he? He’s got to fight it, got to try again and again and again until something sticks. If Deaton can’t help him, if his own spark is trapped inside Allison and she’s perfectly happy to play house with his insides, then he has to do this on his own.

He grabs the house keys off the hook, checks to make sure the iPod and earphones are in his pocket, and sprints out the back door. Stiles ignores the alarmed yells from Allison and Scott. They’ll get the hint one way or another. He just needs air, needs space.

 

There’s a hiking trail that starts at the end of the street, winds along through the woods and ends up sooner or later at the Hale house. There’s probably a strategic reason why the Argents bought the house, and he hates them even more for that.

Stiles never really cared much for running in the past; he’d find himself counting his steps or staring at random trees and it would totally throw off his rhythm. But Allison’s body is lithe and graceful, meant for movement, and he kicks up his heels and picks up speed as he enters the tree line. He pops in her headphones, puts the iPod on shuffle, pays absolutely no attention to the tune that fills his ears.

He’s still wearing last night’s clothes; jeans and a t-shirt and chucks. Not exactly ideal for running, but he somewhat appreciates the drag of weighted denim against his legs, the feel of the rocks under his feet through the thin soles. Most of all, Stiles likes the sweat of exertion gathering at his nape and under his arms, the sense of nearly bursting out of his body.

He runs until he needs to catch his breath, stops and braces himself against a tree while he fishes out a rock from the tread of his shoes. Through the music, he can hear Scott calling his name through the trees, and Stiles is sure that if he really wanted to, Scott could just trace his heartbeat. Scott, the thoughtful bastard, is hanging back to see if Stiles wants or needs help.

Stiles hears a crackling in the bushes near him; tenses and prepares for a confrontation with Scott. He’s already humiliated, thinking of how he ran off like a total idiot for what must have seemed like no reason. He’s trying to marshal his thoughts, to coherently express what it’s like to be stuck somewhere you don’t want to be, somewhere you can’t leave, somewhere that seems less like a prison and more like home every day. How shitty and frightening that feels.

 

He’s surprised, then a little angry, when Allison approaches him. It’s not her fault, of course (if anything, it’s Stiles’s), but seeing his own stupid face, his moles and his mouth and his fucking nose right in front of him in the flesh pisses him off so goddamn much.

“I can’t. I can’t fucking do this anymore,” he says, motioning for her to go away. “I know you’re handling it really well, that you and Scott are working this out, but I can’t just let this keep happening to us. And it’s all my fault to begin with.”

He’s crying now, openly, hot tears down his cheeks and snot in his nose. Bawling, like he’s fucking three years old.

“You think I’m handling this?!” Allison shrieks, incredulous. “I’m going freaking nuts!”

She’s crying too, now.

“This has been one of the hardest weeks of my life. My training, my aunt dying, finding out about all of the werewolf stuff—nothing compares to the past five days. I cry myself to sleep every night, hoping that somehow I’ll just wake up and all of this will have been a bad dream.”

Stiles goes to her, stands on tip-toes to fold her downward into his arms.

He rocks her for a minute or two, until her sniffles subside and his own vision is clear. The feelings won’t exactly go away, but he can suppress them for now. For Allison’s sake.

“You know, we’re being pretty dramatic about all this. I mean, we’ve had some good times,” he offers. “I know I enjoyed my first makeup lesson. And you kicked serious ass at lacrosse.”

She giggles. “That’s true. And it’s been nice, spending time with Scott as just a friend. He’s a great guy.”

“Definitely. And he’s been one hell of a boyfriend to me,” Stiles adds.

 

As if on cue, there’s a rustling sound and a twig snaps nearby.

“I know you can hear me talk about you, Scott,” Stiles calls jokingly. “It’s true, you are a wonderful loverrrr,” he says, trilling the ‘r’.

Silence. Then the rustling intensifies.

“Scott, stop dicking around,” Stiles says.

“Seriously. Stiles’s little hissy fit is over,” Allison adds, and he elbows her. “We can go home now.”

Nothing. And then—

“Yeah, that’s not Scott,” Stiles says, needlessly, as the Thing That is Obviously Not Scott emerges from the forest.

 

The Thing is about ten feet tall, and is vaguely reminiscent of Peter in his full wolf form, only less hairy and with slime. Lots of slime. It smells good, actually, which is the weirdest part. A little like—cedar?

Oh, fuck.

“I think I know what this is,” Stiles says quietly to Allison. “I think we might’ve made it happen.”

“What do you mean, ‘we made it happen’?” Allison snaps.

“Well, remember when I said the switch was the worst case scenario? Well, apparently not.”

And he’s sure she has something queued up in her mind, something witty to say back, but the thing motherfucking _oozes_ forward and Stiles’s mouth goes dry. He’s going to die here, today, at the hands of something that smells like the inside of a nice wardrobe. Well, not really hands. Claw-tentacles? Tenta-claws?

It pops its suckers menacingly in their direction—because _of course_ it has suckers—and Stiles scans their surroundings for anything that looks like a weapon. Sees Allison doing the same from the corner of his eye.

He spies a branch on the ground, grabs it in his hands like a baseball bat, and before he can really think or allow his brain to process it, runs toward the thing, takes a swipe at it around its knee area. Freezes when the thing sort of envelops the branch with a wet _glop_.

Oh, shit. He backs away, ducks under a tentacle that stretches itself in his direction, and tries not to run. He has a feeling running would only make the thing want to chase him. He sincerely hopes Allison is coming up with something slightly less stupid than running at it and poking it with a stick. Feeding it crackers, maybe?

He looks over to her, sees her standing perfectly still in the clearing. It looks a little like she’s trying to summon the spark, but there’s no guarantee that will work—even in the best conditions, Stiles can hardly ever get it to respond.

But Allison’s not Stiles, as is obvious when she straightens up, opens her eyes, and snaps her fingers. Which catch fire.

And Allison’s bow—the beautiful blue recurve—appears in Stiles’s hand. A quiver lands beside him on the ground, and he wastes no time in scooping it up and slinging it onto his back.

Stiles can tell what Allison’s plan is: she’ll distract the thing while he takes pot-shots at it. Not too hard, hopefully, because the thing is the size of a fucking barn and is about twenty feet away, slowly oozing its viscous self in his direction.

Allison starts firing fireballs from her hands—and Stiles is jealous. So jealous. Hopefully that’s something his body will relearn to do when he gets back in it. _If_ he gets back in it, he reminds himself as he nocks an arrow and fires it toward the creature’s back. And if she can control his body so easily, maybe he can make this arrow hit home.

No such luck. He fires the first arrow directly into the ground, about four feet in front of him. He’s kinda glad Allison’s on the other side of the creature, so she can’t see him acting like a fucking dork. The humiliation is only made more intense by the fact that the arrow happens to be an incendiary one, and ignites with a sad _fwoosh_ , setting light to a patch of scrub grass. Awesome. That’s just pathetic.

By now, the thing has turned and is moving toward Allison, smoothly and silently. Which is kinda creepy, actually; Stiles thinks he would handle this much better if it growled or hissed or made vaguely rude insinuations about his dick size. As is, it’s got this sort of ‘inescapable doom’ aura that’s really not fun. It has no need to move fast, probably because it’s unstoppable, and the only sound Stiles can hear (besides the blood rushing in his ears) is the pop and wet smack of its suckers as it opens and closes its claws.

Allison’s hitting the thing full in the face and chest with the fireballs, leaving little scorch marks and setting light to one of its tentacles. The thing doesn’t seem the slightest bit deterred, though: perhaps it doesn’t feel pain. Or simply doesn’t care.

Stiles takes a deep breath, thinks _fuck it_ and closes his eyes as he notches an arrow into the bow. He can feel Allison’s heart beating calmly, her fingers tightening around the string as he draws it back. He opens his eyes, inhales deeply, and lines up his shot. He lets go on the exhale, watches as the arrow soars and embeds itself in the creature’s flesh. It’s a sparkler this time, and the creature turns, trying to dislodge the crackling arrow from its shoulder.

Allison sees her opportunity and hits it in the side of the face with a fireball; stunned, it rears back, and Stiles shoots it cleanly in the neck with an armor-piercing round. The sickening _thwack_ is a pretty good indicator that the monster’s throat is fucked up, and it falls to the ground in a heap. Stiles and Allison look at each other, shrug, run to it, staying just out of reach as they circle it.

“I think it’s dying,” Stiles says, kicking at its leg. Its eyes are fluttering weakly, and it seems to be oozing more slowly now. Its tentacles open and close, suction noises growing faint. It rears up, scaring Stiles back a few feet, and dies. In perhaps the least spectacularly dramatic way a slime monster has ever died.

 

“Do you think it’s…” Stiles trails off, trying to express a fear that it will explode and simultaneously realizing how stupid that is.

“No,” Allison says, pretty much reading his mind. “You’ve seen ‘Men in Black’ too many times.” She snaps her fingers and Stiles’s bow disappears. A broadsword pops into existence not far from him, and he runs to catch it by the hilt before it hits the ground.

Well, that was the plan, anyway. The sword is really fucking heavy, and it takes everything Stiles has not to fall over himself.

“Could you not have put it in my hand?” he calls from a heap on the ground.

“Sorry, not sure I’m good enough with magic to make the distinction between ‘next to you’ and ‘through you’,” Allison replies calmly.

Point taken. “So, you want me to…what?”

She chops a hand at her own neck. “Double tap. Just to make sure.”

Stiles recoils. “Gross.”

“Don’t talk to me about ‘gross.’ When I was twelve, Dad took me into the woods and made me kill, skin, and clean my own deer. And then cook it for dinner. Trust me, my body can handle it.”

“I’m not sure I can, though,” Stiles says, dragging the sword behind him along the ground. “Why can’t you do this instead?”

“Because your body can’t handle it. In terms of strength. Or squeamishness.”

Stiles tries not to resent that. Not hard, because it’s probably true.

“Just make sure the weight is balanced evenly, that you don’t strain your back or arms and that you make a clean cut,” Allison says.

“Easier said than done,” Stiles adds, and raises the sword above his head. He brings it down on the neck of the creature, expecting to meet some fleshy resistance. It sinks through like warm butter, and nothing happens.

“Um, I don’t think this is going to--”

And the creature explodes in a cloud of cedar ash and incense.

“Are you motherfucking kidding me?!” Stiles splutters. “Goddammit, my mouth was open!”

Allison’s laughing, standing just outside the splash zone. “Well, whose fault was that? C’mon, let’s find Scott and go home. I need a shower.” She snaps her fingers again and the sword disappears.

Stiles looks at her, bereft.

“I don’t really trust you with it,” she says. “Not for extended periods of time. No offense.”

“None taken,” he says, grudgingly. He hates that she’s always right.

 

“So tell me again why this thing came after you?” Scott says, once they get back to the house. “I can’t believe you almost got killed and I wasn’t there to save you. I mean, I can’t believe I didn’t hear or smell it.”

“I think that was probably on purpose,” Allison says. “It smelled like tree sap, didn’t make any noise, really, and it was more of our problem anyway.”

Scott just raises an eyebrow.

“She’s right,” Stiles adds. “I mean, it’s not like it was wearing a big sign that said ‘Self-Doubt’ or ‘This is Your Lesson,’ but that was pretty much the gist of it.”

“I think if there’s any lesson in all of this, it’s that you should never, ever do magic unsupervised again. I think you need to start taking lessons from Deaton,” Scott says. “Also, I am never, ever leaving the two of you alone, ever again. Ever.”

 

Of course, Scott has to break his promise fifteen minutes later, when his tiny bladder makes itself known. His leg is jiggling up and down in the chair he’s set up facing the bed where Allison and  Stiles are sitting. He’s been watching them like a hawk, but that doesn’t stop the growing look of discomfort on his face.

“Oh my God, bro,” Stiles says. “Stop doing the pee dance. Look, the bathroom’s right across the hall, and there’s nothing that can happen to us in the space of five minutes. In Allison’s room. In the Argents’ house.”

“Yeah, my parents even texted me that they’re having lunch out,” Allison says, waving her phone. “So there is seriously nothing to worry about.”

Scott looks from one to the other, the weight of decision clear on his face. “I drank too much milk,” he says apologetically, making for the door.

 

As great as Scott is, his scrutiny was kind of getting to be a pain in the ass, so Allison and Stiles both heave a sigh of relief when he’s gone.

“Wow, and I thought he was clingy before,” Stiles says, laughing.

“I know. You should’ve seen him the week after the Winter Formal. He kept hanging around outside my house at night, thinking I couldn’t see him.” She smiles, and it’s a sweet, private thing.

“You were awesome out there,” he says. “I was shitting my pants and you just calmly worked through it.”

She shrugs. “I’ve been trained for strategy my whole life. This was pretty much a field exercise.”

“True. But the way you handled my spark? Holy shit. I had no idea I was capable of that stuff. You’ll have to show me how to do that fireball thing when I’m back…” and he trails off. It’s pretty much a lost cause now. He folds his arms, tries to avoid the inevitable downward turn of his thoughts.

“Don’t be like that,” Allison says, taking his chin in her hand. “You are one of the strongest people I know, and we can find a way to fix all of this.”

He looks, then, deeply into his own eyes. Sees the conviction there, the sadness and the strength that belong to Allison but also, somehow, to him. His face is beautiful, and it takes Stiles’s breath away. His every mole, every freckle, looks perfectly placed. There’s a light smile on the lips, an understanding and a compassion he’s always admired. Allison is one hell of a fighter. She’s one hell of a friend. He loves her.

In that moment, too, he sees the mirrored look in her eyes, the calmness and the curiosity mixed with her bravery.

He does something really stupid (not for the first time, and certainly not the last).

He leans forward, presses Allison’s lips, ever so lightly, to his own.

 

She freezes for a second, taken aback. He puts all his feeling into the kiss—reassurance, happiness, fear—and most of all, gratitude. That she’s sharing this with him, that he has been able to see himself, as a whole, for the first time ever. From the outside. Not hating that knowledge. This kiss is his ‘thank you’ for dealing with all the bullshit he’s gotten her into. He loves how much she loves Scott, how strong she is, how she’s such a good friend and a great person. He wants her to see that, to understand that this is not a come-on but a genuine, impulsive expression of joy and grateful relief.

And she gets it. She kisses him back, slowly at first, opening her mouth gently and stroking her tongue along his lip. She’s looked into her own face, seen its beauty and its strength, and loves the person behind it. Whether that person is Stiles or Allison, neither are sure.

They kiss, gently, for what feels like an eternity but is probably just a few hurried seconds. Hands card through hair, cup cheeks; thumbs stroke along jawlines; smiles grow between them until they hear the door creaking open and break apart.

Stiles just knows it’s Scott, tries to formulate an explanation that involves the translation of complex emotions into simple words, tries not to imagine Scott being angry or jealous. He’s almost prepared to explain why he and Allison were kissing to her boyfriend and his best friend when Allison’s mom pops her head around the door.

Stiles notices two things at once: first, he’s back in his own body. Second, he has a boner.

“Honey, I brought you some tampons; I know you’re--I thought you said you two were just friends!” Victoria exclaims as she peeks in, looking from their flushed faces to their rumpled clothing, Allison’s fluffed hair and Stiles’s erection.

“Yeah, ‘friends’ is probably not the right word anymore,” Allison says, grinning and darting a look at Stiles from the corner of her eye. “It’s complicated.”

 

END

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Confusion Sets In](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9924398) by [Nocturnalist (CaptainJack)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainJack/pseuds/Nocturnalist)




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